The Girl in The Volkswagen

The past week has been hard. You’ve been finding it hard to punch in some few words for the blog. It’s been those weeks replenished by negative energy. Everything seems to be against you and your existence. You wake up, and as you slog to the bathroom, you hit your pinky toe against the edge of the wall. You cuss everyone from your ancestors to your Sunday school teacher. You angrily run the shower but it’s burnt out. Cold water bounces off your back and you jump out cussing again, this time your landlord and his family. You decide on a ‘passport’ bath. You try and call the caretaker to mend your shower but the polite lady from Saf tells you you’re out of airtime. You’re as broke as your showerhead. You cuss the lady and the whole of Safaricom organization. You dress up and head to make some tea for breakfast. But guess what, no gas. You don’t curse. This time you shout, “Fuck!” and leave for school. You’re angry. Mad. Everyone and everything is against you. It’s a sore morning. It’s the middle finger from God himself.

You’re whole week has had such mishaps. You hate life; you find it repugnant. You hate what you do. You hate writing. You hate that you started a blog. You think it was a mistake. Until you see her.

It’s Friday. You caught up with a friend and had beers. Cold ones. Like your week. Your prior plan was to go drown your lonely pathetic life in cold sweaty Tusker bottles and call a taxi friend of yours to carry your drunken ass home. But your friend called. Said he was in CBD and wanted to catch up. You don’t mind. After all, nobody wants to be the lonely guy drinking in a bar alone. He arrives an hour late. You’re angry but as soon as you see him you laugh. He’s one of those guys, the ones you see and laugh before they even utter a word. He laughs too. A brother hug. Pleasantries. And you’re off to the main agenda, beers. You talk everything. Women, thighs, ass, breasts, football, women, thighs, work, ass, breasts, weaves, Melanie Trump, her nudes, her thighs. You end up not getting as inebriated as you’d planned. The stories were too good to gobble down eight beers. You did four instead. Goodbyes and you head to the stage. It’s late, you’re not sure there are any matatus to your place. You may end up calling Njoro, the taxi friend, after all. But you get lucky, the last matatu is about to leave. Three more people and you are off.

You plug in your earphones. It’s Drake’s album Take Care, your current obsession. Back when Drake had it. His voice reverberates in your head. It’s a slow song, like your life. It’s drizzling, the incessant drizzle that causes a nipping to set in. Your warm breath forms a small round puddle of air on the window that disappears as soon as it forms. The bright orange street lights along Thika Road make it cinematic as buildings and tress speed past you. Like a sad scene from a movie. A girl on the subway headed home after a bad break up. In the background, a Sam Smith soundtrack is playing. Tears roll down her cheeks as pictures of how she caught him naked with her best friend flash before her eyes.

A small traffic jam builds up from Allsops through Roasters. It’s where you will see her. She’s in a black VW Golf, a car I’ve grown to revere. She has short dreadlocks with brown dye. She’s beautiful. Not hot, just beautiful. She looks 28, high five figure salary with a manageable car loan. Probably drinks mimosas in a white translucent sundress every Sunday as she reads Vogue. Her window is rolled down. You can see her lips; full and puckered lined with dark red lipstick. You want to feel them, brush yours against hers and then slowly lean in for a kiss. A kiss that makes you weak; debilitated. It strips you off of your masculinity; you’re hers as she is yours. You can see her caramel thighs. They’re smooth. And they glow. The moon lives in the lining of her skin. You can see drops of drizzles falling on them. She likes it. You can tell by the way she closes her eyes and savors the moist air as she moves her head to the music she had on. Her glasses get wet, she takes them off. They’re probably obscuring her optimistic view of life. Riding shotgun is a bag of Chanel, perfume maybe. The traffic starts to move. She doesn’t. Her eyes are still closed as she takes in the wet air, oblivious of Pneumonia. She’s liberated. Nonchalant even. You like her. In another life, you would’ve been an item, an on and off. A relationship where you’re both too damaged to accept love into your life. You both think it’s a show of weakness. Any show of love and one of you would flee but deep down you’d want to embrace the feeling. Until one day you’ll both decide ‘screw it’ and live happily ever after.

Some prick honks at her and she drives off incognizant of what she has done to you. She has liberated you. She’s touched your life. Made you see it in another light, its beauties and exquisiteness. You want to tell her thank you but she’s sped off into oblivion. Like an angel in the night, she fades off into the darkness, the girl in the Volkswagen.

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King is a mad writer on the loose. He is suspected to have lost his mind a few years after he was born. Since then, he has been writing his mind almost everywhere he can put his pen on. Someone – a government, a state, a police force, a parent, a teacher, a rabbi, a president, a sacco, a doctor, a deranged ex, a church, a therapist, or anyone with a bit of power bestowed upon them – should reprimand him and help him.